


Both Of Them, Empty

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Pre-White House (West Wing)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-04-10
Updated: 2002-04-10
Packaged: 2019-05-30 13:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15097625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of theWest Wing Fanfiction Central, a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in theannouncement post.





	Both Of Them, Empty

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Both of Them, Empty**

**by:** Liza 

**Category:** Pre-White House, CJ/Toby

**Rating:** TEEN

**Author's Note:** Okay, this is part of a series within a series, titled Whiskey and Wine. The whole thing is based on different stanzas, in consecutive order, from the song "Picture", by Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow. They go as follows: A Slow Sort of Hell; Both of Them, Empty; Sawijika; Of Dreams and Fairy Tales; Life, Like This; and Whiskey and Wine. This little series within the series is a set of three West Wing stories, all that could be read independently but might be a little confusing if you decide to do just that. Also, these three stories are Pre-White House, back when Toby was still married to Andi, say days before the divorce papers. 

_I put your picture away,_  
Sat down and cried today,  
I can't look at you,  
While I'm lying  
Next to her.

__

She was asleep, her body lying awkwardly sprawled across the mattress, flat on her back with her ankles dangling off the edge. Her hand had lain on his thigh, fingers never wandering, until she drifted off in a restless sleep he feared he would wake her from if his movements dared to alter.

His fingers, close together and softly touching, circled her navel, and every few seconds the room was cast in a red glow as the neon vacancy sign blinked. She never stirred and he knew she was asleep without looking at her face, and so, he never did.

He could not look at her face, because she was his best friend and at times, his only friend, and he had refused to listen to her rationale, though he'd known she was right, and he'd had sex with his best friend of eleven years because he was angry with his wife.

He had devalued her, loved her, hated her, broken her, and she'd been crying with anticipation, pain, need, before he'd finally nudged her over the precipice, and she'd clung to him as if he were a parachute - torn. 

And she was asleep next to him now, and the neon lights washed over them in the tiny motel room, and in the half-light that bathed her, he could see tear tracks on her cheeks and the rise and fall of her chest, skin spattered with goose bumps, nipples still hard with the cold.

Somewhere across the room, between a dilapidated dresser and an equally rickety straight-backed chair, was his trousers, and in the back pocket was a well-worn picture of a woman with long red hair, arms twined around the neck of her husband, his brown hair visibly thinned in the moonlight.

He'd carried it around for years, this picture, his graphic reminder of their honeymoon half a decade before. He had been thinner then, and she had been more beautiful, and somewhere between the first sign of laugh lines and the extra twenty pounds, they'd realized that their marriage was breaking apart just as their bodies were failing, betraying them as they'd betrayed each other.

He thought, then, of sliding from the bed and the woman, another he'd betrayed and broken as he had his wife, and retrieving his picture and his life and begging both for forgiveness. But then, the light flickered and flashed again and he stilled the movement of his fingers as he listened to her breathe.

She was so close and so real and so warm, her hair was red like his Andi's, and she laughed like his Andi. Then he thought that maybe, just maybe, if he closed his eyes and cleared his mind, and ignored the smell of whiskey and the scent of sex, then for just a moment, that one, she could be his Andi and he could be whoever she dreamt of as she slept beside him.

Almost fondly, as he nuzzled his face into her neck, he wondered if maybe she was dreaming of him, and as he drifted off to sleep, he was left wondering of where his Andi was lying at that moment, and how his CJ had ended up beside him in the motel bed, rather, this particularly dirty and lumpy motel bed.

He sighed against her skin one last time and her eyes drifted downward, and he never quite realized that while he'd been dreaming of Andi she'd been awake, never given the chance to dream of him as he'd wondered if she would.

He dreamt of them both, then, and her hand caressed the thinning hair at his forehead as she would her dearest lover, and had he been awake, he would have realized that if she had been less guilt-ridden and afraid, she would have slept with him and dreamt of him as he dreamt of them. Not simply because she loved him, but because her blood burned with him, and she knew he would never relinquish his heart to yet another who could not do the same.

When he'd woken, he'd fully expected her to be gone. She had never been the type to face mistakes, always running from her demons as fast as her legs could carry her, he'd noticed. But instead, she lay curled on her side facing the now dim neon lights that were blending with the first rays of sunlight as they drifted in the east window of the musty hotel room. 

If I told her I loved her, he idly wondered, what would she say? 

Of course, that wasn't entirely true, because love implies that you can fully devote yourself to one person, come hell or high water, and he had much better chance of that with Andi, he knew, because she argued and she hated him most nights, but every morning she loved him despite it and for it, no matter the subject or level of emotion. His CJ was different, she fought with a passion that she couldn't break and couldn't tear away, for she felt things he thought no one should and he couldn't understand her, couldn't understand the emotions and the thought process, and it was that enigma, that mystery, that made him love her as he did.

She was curled on her side much like the little girl he imagined she'd been, strawberry blond pigtails falling down her back as she stood a head taller than the children she played with. Innocent and trusting and beautiful and kind, and he could see her, as if he'd known her then. And to him, but not her, when he'd ran his hands over her body and ran his lips and his tongue over places he had never dreamed he'd reached, she was still very much the child he imagined but had never seen.

It didn't take him long to pull his clothes on, the scent of sex lingering lightly on them as if it were the last attempt at keeping him there, away from his wife, the woman who would know where he had been and who he had been with. As if it were the claws that could hold him there, with her, the girl of strawberry blond locks and innocent eyes, and emotions too complicated for him to understand.

She hadn't moved when he brushed a hand over her cheek and through her hair, a hand that quickly strayed to her side, running over her curves one last time before the final departure. She hadn't moved and hadn't turned her head to him, hadn't woken from her slumber or said goodbye. And, in a strange twisted sort of way, that grabbed at his heart and twisted, for he wanted some sort of acknowledgment, some sort of forgiveness, absolution from his sins and acceptance despite his faults. Faults he'd shown her in the bleakest hours of night when she'd covered him with her own body and brushed away his tears.

And he'd walked away, ignoring the absence of sound and emotion, and he'd wondered if she'd even remember, as the whiskey had probably blurred her senses and heightened her arousal, and he wondered that if she did remember, the likelihood that she'd forgive him, that she'd forgive herself.

He hadn't heard her when she turned to him, for he'd closed the door on the dirty motel room and on her, and he didn't hear her cry out his name or have the opportunity to kiss away her tears, because he was too angry and too desolate, too absorbed in his own guilt and prayers. Andi would not find out.

And when she cried it was with bitterness for a lost childhood and a lost love, because despite his wife and his career and her life and her career, she loved him and knew it was wrong, and she'd never have him, for she was empty.

Had he told her he loved her, she would have laughed, probably then cried though he never would have seen her tears.

Had he told her he loved her, she would have known it was a lie, a desperate attempt at justification and appeasement. And she would have told him she loved him in return, for she did, far too much and far too readily.

If he had told her he loved her, it wouldn't have been only a lie. Because he loved her, and he hated himself for it, because it was another emotion too complicated for him to understand, and the word was empty and desolate, just as the room he'd left her in.

And she loved him, empty.

Sequel - "Of Dreams and Fairy Tales" 


End file.
